


a hypothesis and a list of methods and ingredients

by HuiLian



Series: Whumptober 2020 [10]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Brain Surgery, Gen, Medical Procedures, Science Experiments, Unethical Experimentation, Whump, Whumptober 2020, but he is present in thoughts all the way through!, happy hallowen mind the tags, many original scientists characters, please mind the tags, surgery without anesthesia, though bruce only appears on one scene in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27302161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HuiLian/pseuds/HuiLian
Summary: Jason wakes up to a cacophony of noises coming from all around him. He doesn’t open his eyes, all the training for not letting them know he’s up kicking in, and lets the voices wash over him, trying to figure out what is going on.“What do you mean-,” someone says, only to be interrupted by another person.“-violate the conservation of energy-”“-instantaneously? Without-”Jason resists the urge to frown. What are they talking about? The chatter is a very different one than the usual criminal-trying-to-kidnap-Red-Hood chatter. They never talk about membrane potential, or conservation of energy, or chemical reactions.Well, okay. Some of them, particularly Scarecrow’s or Ivy’s people, might talk about chemical reactions, but never like this.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whumptober 2020 [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947091
Comments: 14
Kudos: 69
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	a hypothesis and a list of methods and ingredients

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lulaypp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lulaypp/gifts).



> ONE MORE TIME, MIND THE TAGS!   
> this is _the_ darkest fic i have ever written, and when else to post it other than halloween? Fori asked for experimentation with Jason, and of course my addled with hours of staring in front of the screen studying bio and physio and biochem and reading journal papers for my assignment decided that what else is better than putting all those hours to use? so! enjoy this venture into the darkness!  
> day 31: experimentation!

Jason wakes up to a cacophony of noises coming from all around him. He doesn’t open his eyes, all the training for not letting them know he’s up kicking in, and lets the voices wash over him, trying to figure out what is going on. 

“What do you mean-,” someone says, only to be interrupted by another person.

“-violate the conservation of energy-”

“- _instantaneously_? Without-”

Jason resists the urge to frown. What are they talking about? The chatter is a very different one than the usual criminal-trying-to-kidnap-Red-Hood chatter. _They_ never talk about membrane potential, or conservation of energy, or chemical reactions. 

Well, okay. _Some_ of them, particularly Scarecrow’s or Ivy’s people, might talk about chemical reactions, but never like this. 

Before he can piece out what is going one, a voice calls out. “Ah, Mister Todd. Good. You’re awake,” someone above him says. “We can proceed with all the halted experiments.” 

The voices stop for a while, before erupting in a thousand different ways. 

“Can I-”

“-the effects on-”

“-no! My array requires him-”

 _What?_ Experiments?

Jason opens his eyes. No use in pretending to be asleep, now that they (he decides to call the person announcing his wakefulness person-number-one) have announced that he’s awake. He is greeted with the sight of googled eyes, masked faces, gloved hands, and, more importantly, white lab coats. 

Shit. 

What are they doing to him? 

He tries lifting his arms, only to find that it’s strapped to the bed. A cursory look downwards tells him that there are straps around his chest, abdomen, and around his legs too. He looks up, and finds himself making eye contact with one of the researchers? Lab tech? Mad scientist? She holds the eye contact, unfearing of him. 

And why should she? He’s stripped and strapped to the bed, unable to move, all his weapons gone. He doesn’t even know why he’s here. 

“A change in eye color, Doctor,” she says, still looking into his eyes. “I believe the procedure causes his stroma to change, making the reflection appear green.”

“Yes, Mitchell,” person-number-one says. It seems that Jason is right. He is the leader of this group? Pack? Companion? What does one call a collection of scientists? “That has been recorded from the preliminary tests. Step your game up.”

The woman, Mitchell, although that’s probably her last name, considering the group holding him right now, grumbles, but doesn’t say anything outright. She grabs a syringe next to her, and jabs them precisely, but not gently, on Jason’s bare arms. 

What are they doing? What do they want from him?

“What the fuck is going on?” Jason growls, frustrated. He sees a few of the scientists? Lab tech?-He still doesn’t know precisely who they are- flinch, but for the most part, they ignored him. 

Weird. He is sure he went out as the Red Hood tonight, and the Red Hood doesn’t really have a reputation for being harmless. Even they should know that, if they’re operating in Gotham. 

Shit. Is he still in Gotham? 

Wait. They called him Mister Todd. He’s unmasked, though that alone shouldn’t tell them anything. Jason Todd doesn’t really have photos, or any presence, legal or otherwise, whatsoever. 

Who is he dealing with? How do they know about him? 

“Tell me what the fuck is going on,” Jason growls again, “or I swear-”

“Now, Mister Todd, no need for threats,” person-number-one says. “I assure you I went through the proper channels to acquire you. All is above board.” He gives Jason a small smile, the kind you give to misbehaving children that you find amusing but cannot afford to let continue. 

“Proper channels?” Jason asks, stalling for time. When person-number-one is talking, the rest of the scientists?-what _are_ they?- stops what they are doing, so Jason is trying to get him to talk as long as he can. The straps are, unfortunately, made of good quality. He’s been spoiled with Gotham’s cesspit of underpaid and poorly supplied criminals. 

“Oh yes, proper channels. I am a researcher, after all, and we do things the right way in my lab. Unfortunately for you, being legally dead means that you do not have the power to sign a consent form,” he smiles again, less like humoring misbehaving children and more like a shark that has smelled blood, “and thus we do not need to obtain _your_ consent.” 

A second pass. And then two, while Jason is mulling over what he said. But before the full implication of it can hit him, person-number-one claps his hands and says, “Alright, enough dithering! I want that data on my desk by lunch, Bilakopic, and Kim! Don’t forget to run the gel analysis!” 

“Yes, Professor,” a woman, Bilakopic, going by her features, mutters. Another man, whom Jason guesses is Kim, nods tersely. 

“Do not worry, Mister Todd,” person-number-one, whom Jason _still_ hasn’t caught the name of, says. “Your contributions will be highly valued by the scientific community. Of course, you won’t be named,” a tilt of his head, “but I will know.” 

Jason opens his mouth to tell him to _fuck off_ , but before he can say anything, a man puts a swab of cotton inside his mouth and scrapes what feels like the inside of his throat. He watches as person-number-one saunters off the room, and looks around to the collection of dead-faced scientists around him. 

His hands are still not free. The straps hold throughout his attempts at escape. 

Shit. 

***

The… experiments, if Jason can call it that, goes on and on for hours. One of them would come with one type of test tube or another in their hands and draw various things from his body. Ranging from blood to skin to hair to urine, all the way to cerebrospinal fluid from his spine. It hurts, but not excessively so. Person-number-one, whom Jason still hasn’t caught the name of, was right. 

They are professionals. 

Normally, that would make Jason be a bit calmer. There is nothing worse than getting kidnapped by an amateur, especially a desperate amateur. Amateurs are more likely to either mess up or hurt him accidentally. A professional hit, even though that might sound terrifying to people not used to their line of work, is really one of the better things that can happen to them.

But this time? This time it terrifies Jason. 

Because professional means that they won’t think of you as a person. Professional means that there is no way for Jason to persuade one of them, or to make them lower their guard so that he can escape. 

Professional means that there is nothing for him to exploit. 

So he lies there, watching as they run their experiments on him. Not literally, of course. They come to gather their samples and then leave immediately, presumably to run it somewhere else. Jason watches as they pull blood from him with meticulous, efficient moves; as they open his mouth without any fanfare to swab his throat; as they measure his heartbeat, his breathing, his oxygen levels, and everything and anything you can monitor in a body. 

It went on for _hours_. Jason is just lying there, unable to move and unwilling to talk, because he knows that nothing that is coming out of his mouth will convince them. 

They are _professionals_. 

Slowly, the number of people coming back for more samples dwindles. Do mad-scientists work normal hours? What time is it? 

Hell, what _day_ is it? From the expression on person-number-one’s face when he woke up, Jason can tell that they have been doing this for a while now. 

How long have they had him? 

“Asif, no!” Jason hears someone shouts from somewhere outside his room. What now?

“He’s not going to let us go before that data hits his table and you know it, Kris!” 

“You can’t be serious! I’m not going in there with just the two of us!”

Are they… talking about him? Huh. Okay. Jason can work with this. 

But before he can think about what he is going to say to them, they come in, face as expressionless as everyone's been throughout the day (Jason decides to call the time he’s been awake until now a day. He doesn’t have any other method of determining time, not with this closed up room and his fucked internal clock.). They go directly to the table full of equipment and wastes no time nor movement in getting what they want. 

Efficient. Meticulous. Exact. 

Professionals. 

All traces of humanity, glimpsed from that snippet of conversation outside the room, is gone. In its place is the cool, detached mask of a scientist observing their object of study. 

Jason closes his open mouth, swallowing down all the words he wanted to say, and then he closes his eyes. What’s the point in resisting? They don’t even see him as human.

It’s not that bad anyway. Just a couple of pricks from the needle, and the uncomfortable feeling of a cotton swab being put into his throat. It’s nothing worse than being in the Cave, getting patched up by Alfred, or even the check-ups with Leslie back when Bruce still cared enough for him to get him to do check-ups. 

Does Bruce still care enough for him to search for him? Or are they going to just brush off his disappearance, relieved that this particular burden is gone?

Jason breathes out as the cotton swab is being pulled out of his mouth. It’s not that bad. It’s not that bad. 

***

He was wrong. It is that bad. 

He spent a few more sessions being poked and prodded and taken samples of, nothing worse than the things they did to him in the first session. But then, one day, person-number-one, whom Jason hadn’t seen in his room from that first session, comes in, with several of his scientists in tow. 

“Doctor, you can’t be serious,” the one walking in right behind person-number-one says. “We can still make do with what we have.”

“Make do?” person-number-one says. “We don’t _make do_ in the Greber Lab, Segal. We _excel_.” Person-number-one, whose name is probably Greber, considering everything, takes a scalpel from the table full of equipment and hands it over to Segal. “Now do it, or I am going to reject all of your proposals. It’s clear that you do not have what it takes to succeed in this field.”

A hush comes and engulfs the room. The rest of the scientists, everyone except for Greber and Segal, are standing close to the door, posture all ready to bolt. Jason tenses. This is not good. 

He sees Segal gulps, looking down to the scalpel in Greber’s hands. She doesn’t raise her hand to take it. 

Greber scoffs. “I see. You are always welcome to leave my team, Segal,” he says, before walking towards Jason with the scalpel in tow. 

Oh, this is not good. This is not good at all. 

Greber presses down on Jason’s chest, the scalpel still in his hands. Jason has never felt the lack of clothing on his chest as acutely as he does now, looking at the scalpel glinting under the fluorescent light. 

But before Greber can do anything, Segal shouts, “I’ll do it!”

The scalpel stops in its descent. Jason lets out a small breath of relief, only to stop again when he realizes what she was saying. 

She’ll do it. What is she going to do to him? 

Another blood-smelling shark smile blooms on Greber’s face. “Good,” he says. “I always know you could do it, Segal.” He flips the scalpel in his hands and offers it to Segal, handle first. “After you.”

“At least give him anesthetics, Doctor,” someone calls out from the crowd near the door. 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. What are they going to do to him that requires anesthetics? 

Or, perhaps even more worryingly, what are they going to do to him that _should_ require anesthetics, but they won’t give it to him? 

“No,” Greber answers promptly. “All of our anesthetics are going to interact with his receptor proteins, distorting the result we are looking for. No anesthetics.” 

Shit. This is going to hurt, isn’t it? 

Jason breathes out, trying to get to the meditation mindset both Bruce and Talia tried to teach him. In, and out, calm your heart rate, get your mind somewhere else. 

Jason sees Segal take the scalpel. He sees Greber move back, out of reach. He sees the hesitation, the _pity_ on Segal’s face, before it is quickly removed underneath the detached mask all of them always wear around him. 

Jason closes his eyes, trying to will his mind to bring him to other places. Happier places. Training with Bruce. Cooking with Alfred. The small, pleased smile on Talia’s face when he completed a hard training. 

Flying on the rooftops of Gotham. Feeling the fluter of his cape behind him. Feeling the weight of Bruce’s cape all around him. 

It doesn’t work. 

He still screams as the scalpel makes its way around him, on top of him, and finally, inside of him. He screams until the group of scientists near the door put their hands on their ears; he screams until Segal, who is still holding the scalpel, asks for someone to help her restrain him; he screams until his throat constricts and his lungs collapse. 

But still, the scalpel moves on, cutting pieces of him with surgeon-like precision, uncaring of the amount of pain it gives him. 

***

Jason doesn’t even twitch as he hears someone thundering into the room. What’s the point? It’s going to happen either way. 

“I don’t care why you haven’t done it,” he hears Greber’s voice, the first time since a few days ago, when the man told his subordinates to cut him open and then watched. They have done worse things than just cutting him open since then, but never with Greber present.

They have cut out a piece of bone from his leg, stuck a needle in to take a sample of the marrow, and then breaks the leg, and Jason is more nervous now with Greber in front of him than he was on that day.

His leg is splinted now, probably in another experiment to see how long it would take him to heal a broken bone. These people do not do anything to him without a hypothesis and a list of ingredients and methods. 

“I want it done. Now,” Greber finishes, looming in front of Jason, a power saw in his hand. 

What else are they going to do to him? They have cut him open, taken pieces of skin and muscle, taken samples of various liquids from his abdomen, and broken his bone and took the marrow underneath. What else _can_ they do to him? 

“Doctor,” a woman Jason distantly recognizes says, “this procedure is too risky. Especially if you insist on not using anesthesia.”

“Oh, do shut up, Bilakopic.” Ah. That’s her name. But then, what difference would knowing her name give for Jason? It’s not like they see him as human. 

It’s not like he can see _them_ as human, after all they had done to him. 

“We haven’t had any progress with any of his other cells, so obviously what causes him to spontaneously resurrect is _not_ that. That leaves his central nervous system, the only place we haven’t taken a sample of yet,” Greber says. 

“Doctor,” Bilakopic says, “have you considered that it’s going to give permanent damage to the subject?”

“Who do you think I am?” Greber snaps, for once showing something other than amusement or irritation. He’s desperate, and Jason can feel it. 

It scares Jason even more. Desperate is not good. Desperate means they’re going to be careless, and careless, in a situation like this, can very well spell death for him. 

Jason doesn’t want to die yet. Again. He has stared death in the face many, many times before, has even died, but never like this. Never strapped down, feeling his body getting weaker and weaker as they took more and more pieces from him, and unable to _do_ anything. 

Where is Bruce? He’s going to come, right? But it’s been, at the very least, weeks since they have him, and still, no one has come to rescue him. 

Are they searching for him? They are, right? They keep saying about how family don’t leave anyone behind. 

But is _Jason_ still part of the family?

Maybe not. Maybe they see that he is gone and is congratulating each other, a thorn in their side finally removed. 

No. They’re going to come get him. They will. Bruce promised, didn’t he?

“Get the headrest,” Greber barks out. A clanging noise from somewhere behind Jason tells him that one of the scientists always following in Greber’s wake is doing just that. 

Wait. Headrest. Power saw. Central nervous system. 

Jason feels all of his breath come out of his lungs in one fell swoop. Are they going to operate on his _brain_?

No. No. Nonononono. They can’t do that to him. They can’t do that. 

Jason starts to pull on his restraints, doing so for the first time in _days_. He has to get out. Whatever he does, he has to _get out_. 

He can feel the atmosphere in the room tensing. Greber, however, is not concerned. “Get more restraints, while you’re at it,” he says, clicking his tongue. 

No. No. They can’t do that. They _can’t_ do that. 

They can, however. Hands hold him down, manhandling him to a sitting position. The first time in weeks that Jason is sitting up, and he can’t even savour it. 

He can’t get out of their grip. They’re careful, always tying a new strap to hold him in place before removing another one. Besides, he hasn’t eaten in days--they had him on an IV drip-- and he can feel that he’s not even at half strength. 

Soon enough, Jason is sitting up, head tied in place on top of an aluminium headrest, the rest of his body tied down either to the bed or the bars just above his bed. 

This is happening. 

This can’t be happening. 

This is happening. 

“Gloved, masked, and gowned, everyone?” Jason hears someone ask, and then he hears the chorus of agreements afterwards. He hears the thrum of a power tool being turned on, and it hits him, right then and there. 

This is happening. This is really happening. He can’t get out. 

He closes his eyes, swearing to himself that he is not going to scream this time. 

The resolve lasts only until the saw makes contact with his head. 

***

Jason swears he can feel the piece of skull moving. It shouldn’t. It was sutured close, and he felt _every single one_ of those sutures coming in and out of his skull. It shouldn’t move. 

But he feels it moving. 

His head is elevated now, and wrapped with sterilized gauze. Say what you want about these people, and Jason can say _a lot_ after weeks of being here, but they know how to properly do brain surgery. 

Even though they did it to him without anesthesia. 

Jason hadn’t bothered being cognizant since then. It’s better this way. They can do what they want to him, and he doesn’t have to be aware about them doing it. 

It’s better this way. 

Days, if he can even call it that, blur together. They keep coming back for more samples, though thankfully never reopening the hole in his skull. 

He has a hole in his skull. The thought makes him want to laugh, because the other alternative is to cry. 

And he refuses to cry here. They have taken his blood, they have taken his organs, they have even taken brain matter from him, but they would not have his tears. He refuses to give them his tears. 

People keep coming and going and coming again, faces morphing together into a single, amorphous and emotionless face. He doesn’t bother trying to keep track of who is who. 

White coats. Blue gloves. Green mask. 

Black cowl. 

Wait. 

Black cowl? 

No. It’s just a fragment of his imagination. It’s his abused brain, dreaming up of scenarios in which he gets to get out of here. 

But he hears voices. Panicked voices. Voices that don't sound like a tape recorder, saying everything in a monotone. 

“Jay?” the voice says. “Jaylad, can you open your eyes?” 

No, dad. He doesn’t want to. 

“Jay, I know it’s painful, but I need you to open your eyes for me,” the voice says again, deeper and warmer than anything he has heard here. It’s most likely a hallucination. Bruce has given up on him, that he knows. But still, he wants to bury himself in the voice that reminds him so much of home. 

Home. He just wants to go home, dad. Please. 

“Can you do that?” the voice asks, rumbling all around Jason’s ears. It reminds him of late-night patrols, of being bundled up in the cape, of being _safe_. 

Jason opens his eyes, and is greeted by a sight as familiar to him as his own name. Bruce’s face in a cowl. 

“Good job, Jay,” Bruce murmurs, still maintaining that soft voice. “Now, I need you to stay awake for me, yeah? We’re going to get you out of here,”- Bruce raises his hand, moving towards Jason’s exposed face, but then drops them back down again. Jason strangely misses the touch. - “but I need you to stay awake, okay?” 

Jason wants to say something, wants to nod his acquiesce, but the only thing that came out of him is a whine. 

Bruce understands anyway. 

“Good lad,” he says, brushing his hand to Jason’s own. Jason leans to the touch, feeling sad that the one from before, the one headed to his face, didn’t make contact. 

It is a blur, then. He’s pretty sure the rest of the family was there. There was a flash of blue, a hint of green, and flickers of red, yellow, and purple. But throughout it all, he keeps his eyes on the black in front of him, the black that never left his side. 

It stayed with him, up until they were out, until they hooked up various machines to him, and until the voice says again, “You can go to sleep, now.”

And with that voice, and that warmth right beside him, and that hand softly drawing patterns on his hand, Jason… sleeps. 

**Author's Note:**

> i thought about writing a recovery scene but then i realized that that is going to be a whole beast of its own and i didn't have the time and energy to write those! and yes, there are many things left unsaid that i know the answer to but cannot fit into the fic because this is from Jason's POV and _he_ doesn't know anything. Whump, i guess? 
> 
> Maybe I'll write more of this in the future, who knows? 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed it, especially you fori!


End file.
